FAIR OR NOT MY STORY
by Adeosun Olamide
Summary: The Little Words We Heard.


They say and speak lots and lots about Him, They  
praise Him, honor Him, adore Him as foliage honors  
the wind, we make requests of Him.  
They say His tale is unlike fairytales, they call Him the  
good old odd genius one that wields a rod that  
removes fun from the face of a mad man and on a lad He puts it to jest at Him.  
He heeds to the voice of His own as a mother  
hearkens to the cry of her newborn. Above all they  
say He is fair yet he creates the boy with no limbs, no  
sight and he cause him to be born to a poor widow, a  
homeless poor widow and unto a wealthy house he gives a healthy child.  
I am aware of his affair with the Israelites as written  
in His history, His chronicle. His firmness of care for  
them one I wouldn't see if I compare Israel to other  
nations.  
He created despair and fear for them that refuse to accord Him and Flared at those who accorded Him. He  
repaired them with no pair, scaring other nations  
with spear, tearing them unaware yet they say He is  
fair. I have never wished to define Him but I know  
you failed to tell about Him accurately.  
My name is Dennis and I have a story to tell, my story. Fourteen years ago, a one hundred and sixty eight  
month ago I was told I was born, on this day that  
day my father died, minutes before I was born. He  
was buried, close to my room.  
I heard he was brave to his purpose, I heard he was  
a fierce hunter who loved meat like he hated animals; I was told he was a good husband. They say he was  
loved by everyone except his brother, his envious,  
jealous brother.  
Isioma is his name, but only few knew him as Isioma,  
everyone called him the tiger, a fierce tiger not  
because he is as cruel as a cat but because the cat is not as cruel as him.  
He would never confess his hatred for my father to  
anyone but me, he didn't love me as he hated me,  
and he coddled and cuddled me into slumbering in  
the absence of my mother, the absence of her  
warmth mostly caused by his doings. I see his heart as golden as the heart of stone as I am aware of how  
his duty to me, his onus for me thwarted and  
frustrated him.  
I didn't have to mask my hatred from him, it was well  
concealed on my face and even a blind man would  
see it. Customs, traditions, norms, and patterns they call it  
for a brother to inherit everything his dead brother  
owns, his wife, and kids weren't exempted. He  
inherited my mother and me.  
I have learnt he loved women for pleasure during  
leisure as he loved my mother but she had desired my father over him. Ladies sought after my father,  
they desired to be his inamorata but he preferred my  
mother as his paramour. Series of proposals turned  
down upon by my mother's parent, my dad had  
emerged as her husband after a tasking test he  
succeeded at. He brought the tusk home to our kingdom and he was ordered to speak of his desires,  
he had picked a beautiful young lady as his prior, my  
mother, they say they celebrated, jubilated and were  
delighted until the day I was born, my birth, the day  
he passed on and away. Everyone cried even me, the  
whole world mourned him probably Jesus didn't he was happy to receive Him, they said the clouds didn't  
stop crying as it poured it grief upon all, the sun took  
a break and the sad moon was and has never been  
as dull as it was.  
I grew up in this sea of troubles I find difficult to  
understand, with the waves as high as Everest and the difficulty as severe as counting scattered stars in  
the sky.  
My mother made it seem safe and sound feeling my  
needs.  
I use to sneak out of the house to the rugged rock  
where all the village rugged rascal use to run round, close to the rock was a dull, cheerless sullen garden  
with few fruit trees, it was like unlike desert air as we  
the rugged rascal never let it bloom not to mention  
wasting it. We lavished scanty vigor to it and every  
Sunday evening there is always a new fruit found on  
it. Sunday morning use to feel real good, not because of  
sneaking out later in the day but because of the  
winds that blows the soul and mind in the  
parsonage.  
We attended the Anglican Church not very far from  
the stream and the graveyard the church they say is as old as the Bible and my forefathers were forced,  
compelled to build it rumors had it that those that  
told and taught about Christ had the bible in one  
hands and arms in the other, those that built it were  
buried beneath it we had to cross the stream to get to  
the church, so we swim every Sunday morning probably it contributed to the chill I feel only in the  
church, the church was beautified by flowers  
blooming colorfully, and remain of withered leafs of  
trees beautified it the more, we could see the grave  
yard through the window, the broken wooden  
windows. It is as it was an abode of selfish friendly people  
filling all it quarters, paying full attention and  
concentration to the motivating preacher man; he  
was in his thirty s and he looked so calm from  
outside but within you won't have to guess much,  
with my New Testament bible though not new made tattered by an invisible rat, I listen to the falsely true  
sermon with so much passion, even the tree trembles  
during sermon, with so much obsession, he would  
scream, you could see the zeal in his eyes, such zeal I  
haven't seen again after his passing. He was killed by  
a lustful, thirsty, hunger filled snake after a vigil with the choristers' mistress in his room, making the bed  
his altar.  
He would say husband love your life as Christ love  
the church that He gave His life for it, and then he  
would say again wife be subject unto your husband  
as unto the lord for the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church. Most Sundays  
his wife comes late into the church with bruises all  
over her and a black eye, she will sit so calmly with a  
black scarf over her; the black scarf wasn't enough to  
cover her hurt which was far glaring than the scarf,  
what a bitter sweet love she enjoyed from the cruel kindness of the preacher man.  
People and their regret, I also have one, my failure to  
fear fright itself, it is the only thing I have failed to fear  
and it brought up the darkest secret in me fuelling  
dark desires that aroused in me. It defined my goal  
as long as I breathe and that goal was to stop there breathe, to puff life out of them.  
I won't tell you about my dad's brother, about his pot  
tummy and his love for beer and women, I won't tell  
you his favorite quote is that the evil that men do  
lives after them, I won't tell you.  
What is not impossible is that he could change, my mother would later bear him kids, and they will  
become my half siblings, he is about to change but I  
mustn't let him, he must not remember that the egg is  
the father of the cock and now I must prove it  
without hurting my mother or her children,  
apparently it is absurd but it is true, I have gotten liberty in the stead of death and even the most  
foolish man knows what to do of and with liberty.  
I will comb history to uncover the truth, a truth so  
needed than the unaccountable fact.  
Hey I will kill you like I killed your father, without a  
second thought I tried to speak but my voice was still as death. As I awoke from my death to the world I  
realized it was a nightmare, a frightening terrifying  
dream.  
There she was beside me, I caught glimpse of tears  
on her dry cheeks, I haven't observe lately until now  
how slender she had become, she was lean as compared to her considerable old former self.  
She tied a loose lounging garment to her waist which  
covered half the organs on her chest; she then untied  
the already slacking garment harnessing it unto her  
face to wipe the droplet of tears on it, with a still calm  
voice she said your father came to me tonight, in a dream, you beginning to look so much like him, his  
big flat nose and dry hair is all over you, he said he  
will be back, he said he will be back for you, he said it  
is going to be a tough journey for me as she spoke  
tears kept running down her cheeks, he assured that  
the journey wouldn't be agonizing as straining. I dragged myself off the bed and into her eyes I  
looked, I had never seen her in that manner, I knew  
at that moment that I haven't been a good son, a  
caring child, I did not notice the cut on her thumb  
and the bruises on her arms, as I held her, she said  
that isn't what hurt me, I am wounded, hurt by you. Fear gripped me and in a second the words came to  
me, the words I heard in my dream, it echoed in my  
ears, I am going to kill you like I killed your father,  
could it be the man my mum saw in her dreams?  
Could it be the man coming to take me? Could it be  
my father? With thoughts crossed in my mind quickly covered by the guilt I felt for not been there for her.  
As she continued her husband Isioma beckoned  
unto her, she scampered like a stream with no course  
out of the room. I just sat there wet, very wet and in  
no sudden I awoke, it had all being a dream all the  
way. I felt the resonance from the backyard brought me back to life, I could hear his voice ambiguously  
woman wont your son wake up today? He asked,  
the sun is almost out and the farm need be cleared. I  
knew what I may be in for that day, alone on the  
farm, the biggest farm in the whole of the village, my  
mum like always replied he is tired and exhausted from last night, I had told him to wash your clothes  
and his siblings, he is right to feel sleepy she  
continued, that was a good lie from mother and it  
worked a bit getting my thought given to the  
unusual dream.  
I was beginning to ask questions, to make demands, the dream had drawn perspective I found very  
difficult to define. In a while it crossed my mind no  
one ever told me what killed my father, no one ever  
told me anything as regard his death, probably he  
was murdered, slain but I have got this feeling from  
within he didn't die in cold blood but hot blood. I could hear the creak of the door, I knew he was  
coming here to do as usual what he does in times like  
this, he use to come as a bull with no horn, and a bull  
with no horn can't be taken or controlled, the best I  
could be was a spear. There is a container almost  
everywhere in the house littered all over to receive the leakages our leaky roof provided when it rains.  
The upper covering of my room is unlike the others,  
you wouldn't pray for the sun to shine nor pray for  
rain. As I heard his feet clamoring towards my room,  
I didn't have to decide to play a stunt on him, a little  
trick the devil taught me. I had taken one of the containers and filled it with urine, I was about  
championing the last step when he stepped in, he  
spoke like I have never heard, there was a round  
leather object in his hand, I looked into his eyes, the  
wickedness, evilness I use to see wasn't there, I  
could see goodness and kindness in it, for a moment I didn't say a word or accept the leather round object  
he had stretched to me. I knew for certainty that I did  
not deserve any reward, I stood to my feet and  
accepted it, in his eyes was guilt, remorse, why he felt  
that way I did not know, I simply couldn't appreciate  
him as I knew lot and lot of things is wrong right from my dream and I wondered if the wrong things  
were the right things.  
He could see it burdens me, his intention to help, a  
sudden change in his attitude. I could see my mum,  
the tears on her cheeks were that of joy, I didn't  
wonder what she was thrilled about and in a sudden I heard my name. Dennis she called your father is  
back, she said see your father, see him. I knew it was  
another dream or probably my mother had gone  
mad with her husband or madness is in me. I was  
going crazy, there he was with my half kid sister in  
his arms, tears flowing down his cheeks in a calm voice, a still tough calm voice he said sorry my boy  
that I have gone away from you, that I have gone  
too far away I lost my way in the forest the day you  
were born, I had gone to search for herbs for your  
mother when I was bitten by a snake, I was picked  
up by some travelers, they were unlike us, they were light skinned, very light skinned, they took me away  
to save me and I had to work all this years to find my  
way back.  
I had not seen him, probably he made a difference  
from his brother, and he wore a coat I had seen  
before, a coat owned by the preacher man. I have been a victim of hatred, a very selfish hatred,  
my heart broken and rather than it getting repaired  
the broken pieces keeps breaking.  
As he leaped towards me I asked my mother about  
the fellow lain in the grave close to my room, she was  
baffled and confused and it befuddled me, she tried hard to remember but it became more hard as she  
tried, after a long try she stated she didn't know, she  
said I didn't see the corpse of your father as he was  
buried the day after your birth, I was sick, I was  
really sick.  
As the man who my mother claimed as my father came towards me to give me a hug, to cuddle me as a  
father coddles his daughter. Tears were flowing  
down my cheeks like a running tap already, in a  
sudden we heard a hysteric laughter that soon  
turned into crying, our attentions shifted to where  
the sound emanate from, then a boom, a gunshot was what we heard next.  
My mother ran in faster than a cheetah, we followed  
and to my greatest bewilderment, the man that had  
taken hold of me since I was born was on the  
ground, I could see a hole in his head. Everyone  
wept but she wept and wept, I wept still baffled by the semblance between the man my mother called  
my father and the man on the ground.  
No one ever told me my father was a twin, he picked  
my mother up, wiped her face but she wouldn't stop  
crying, I felt my mother had loved him especially in  
his passing. In a rush, my mother screamed, she was aggrieved,  
angry and she shouted unto the sky, unto God. She  
asked why He let this happen to her, she was  
uncontrollable and violent towards God, no one  
could stop her not even the man she called my father,  
I knew at that moment God has forgotten her, God has forgotten what she did for Him, how she spoke  
about Him, how she said lots and lots about His  
mercy, His kindness.  
I love my mother, my father did but she was lost, she  
was ever lost till this day and age even and no one  
could find her.


End file.
